


Drift Compatible

by dooliandrake



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Eventual Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dooliandrake/pseuds/dooliandrake
Summary: The Kaiju are attacking Thedas, and Fenris is trying to adapt his skills as a Tevinter pilot to being a Jaeger pilot at Base Sundermount.





	1. No Drift and Snow Drifts

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY, yes this is a repeat of a fic I started a while back. I started writing it, had a panic attack about how bad it was, watched Pacific Rim again, and started over. I've taken feedback to heart and tried to make the spacing easier on the eyes. Not everyone likes to read the really compact version of 'Les Miserables' with no end-of-paragraph spaces and teeny, tiny margins. Honestly, that cheap Les Mis paperback is my book aesthetic. Walls of words. Blocks of text. I probably need glasses now. I've tried to make this more airy and easier on the eyes. I'm still learning how to do this, so thank you for your help and for reading!  
> Fenris-central, eventual romance of some sort, with someone.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He just won’t drift,” Hawke muttered. “I’ve done drift compatibility tests with all the pilots I can think of, but he just can’t do it. Whatever he fought in before, it’s done a number on him. He’s pushing himself too hard. I don’t even know why he wants this so bad.”

“He’s hardly been here a few months,” Bethany suggested gently. “He’s come a long way for being a fresh recruit. He needs time.”

“He’s not fresh. That’s the problem.”

“He just needs someone who can pull him out of his shell, get him to trust them. He’s flighty.”

“I’m afraid he’s worse than flighty. I suspect there’s good reason,” Hawke mussed his hair, “I just wish I knew what it was.”

“Can you ask Anders to perform an examination? He’s brilliant in the simulations, in training, sparring. He’s in perfect physical condition, but there’s something...something.”

“I thought  _ I  _ could drift with him.”

“Garrett, you think you can drift with everyone.”

“Well I can. Almost anyone.”

“You have to let him get more experience in the sim.”

“That’s not what he  _ needs _ .”

“It’s the best we can do until we figure out what he  _ does _ need.”

“Hawke?” Anders admitted himself with a hesitant knock. “Sorry to interrupt, but Fenris broke curfew. He went down to the Hanged Man. We realized too late to stop him.”

“I’ll go after him. Thanks, Anders.” The fair-haired Ranger nodded and disappeared.

“I’ll make sure Anders is actually on his way to bed. What would cause Fenris to run off?”

“I just might have done a drift test on him with Merrill today,” Hawke said, “I know!” He held up his hands before Bethany could say anything. “It was a bad, bad idea.”

“Garrett! You already know he hates her!”

“That doesn’t mean they couldn’t’ve worked.”

“You knew they wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I knew it wouldn’t work. I’ve got to go apologize.”

“Leave it to you to make rash decisions,” Bethany said, shaking her head.

He heard Bethany running to catch up to Anders behind him.

 

Hawke scuffed his feet along the metal walk. He couldn’t blame Fenris for running off. Merrill meant well, she honestly did, but she didn't understand pain that couldn't be laughed away. She came across as harsh, belittling anything Fenris felt when she told him to simply “lighten up.”

He could take the car, but he preferred to walk. It wasn’t far to the fringes of Kirkwall. Walks were good for thinking and Hawke wanted to think.

Whatever Fenris had experienced before coming to join the Rangers couldn’t’ve been pleasant, if his mistrust of any and all overtures of kindness was any hint. It had trained him well, though. Fenris was a fighting machine. All he’d told them was he was from Tevinter. No one knew much about what they did to fight the kaiju in Tevinter, but Rangers didn’t come from Tevinter. They kept their pilots and their research to themselves. Pushing Fenris to reveal anything he knew was off-limits as far as Hawke was concerned.

 

Fenris knew he shouldn’t have indulged in the  _ Aggregio _ , but he couldn’t seem to calm his nerves. Merrill’s voice echoed in his head, squeaky and too young for her appearance. She hadn’t insulted him, directly. The opposite, as a matter of fact. But the pity he could feel seething behind her pretty, tattooed face and the way she spoke to him as though soothing a child was acid in his throat. He hated feeling so small. Danarius would talk to him that way. Fenris curled his fingers around the neck of the wine bottle and fought the urge to throw it against the wall. He regretted it every time he did it and felt obligated to leave an apologetic tip upon leaving the room. And now he knew the innkeeper, and he would think of it every time he spoke to Varric. He took another drink, instead, and resumed pacing.

Merrill had seen something, he didn’t know what, and now she thought that she knew him. His brain was full of memories, but they were all stolen, not one of them his own. Memories from the various other slaves he had fought with in Tevinter. Most, if not all of them, long dead now. He took a long drink from the wine bottle. He could sift through those memories if he wanted. He replayed one of his favorites, from a girl who had not been born a slave, as he supposed he had. In her memory, he saw a verdant slope and stopped to pick a small pink flower. The taste of salt in the air was so pungent, his own pulse quickened, his senses reacting as though the memory was his own. There were a few scudding clouds and beneath him was the ocean. A sparkling, blue ocean, nothing like the grey, angry ocean he had seen in Seheron. The pink flower, the soft feel of the grass, the gradient of blues across the sky and the water...he closed his eyes and let the memory roll across his tongue. Like the wine, he savored it. He felt guilty, sometimes, for having stolen these memories, but he hadn’t done it willingly. It was simply a side effect of the drift.


	2. Man or Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some kind of background info on how I picture they did things in Tevinter, and maybe a glimpse at how Fenris feels about that.

Jaegers, the hulking armored weapons in which Rangers worked in teams to battle the strange enemy they called kaiju, comprised a large part of Fenris’s own memories. And his memories did not extend beyond a time when the kaiju attacked. Believed to be demons by the superstitious, the kaiju were monsters, twisted and huge, and came from the ocean. Many believed them to be alien, but the truth was not clear. They had enough to deal with fending off the creatures to worry about determining their point of origin. Fenris had seen dozens upon dozens of kaiju. He knew that some sparked with electricity, some spat a toxic blue substance, and some were heavily armored. All of them were deadly, and could be categorized based on strength. He had lost count of how many he had helped kill. It frustrated him that Hawke would not let him operate a Jaeger. He had the skill. He’d done it a hundred times.

But that was under different circumstances. Here in the Free Marshes, a team of two operated each Jaeger using the mental bond called the drift that allowed the two individuals to share the burden of the machine’s operation. As far as Fenris could tell, the operational burden was evenly distributed.

In Tevinter, a Jaeger had one pilot, called a Magister, who operated with a secondary pilot, called the Fist. Fenris was Danarius’ Fist. The Fist took the greater weight of the Jaeger’s physical operation. The Fist needed to be fast and able to bear the mental strain of his position, while the Magister took care of the tactical operation, holding back and studying the enemy’s movements, instructing his Fist. Most Fists were nothing but brawn with no brain, thus the title. They were warriors, giving the Jaeger strength and speed and completely controlled by the Magister. They were thralls with no individual compulsion, operating like puppets. Often, the mental strain of both the Magister’s puppetry and the Jaeger’s operation proved too much for them. Magisters brought several Fists with them into battle, the cockpit crowded with a handler and the backup pilots, ready to be brought forward to replace the limp body of a dead Fist. The drift wasn’t a matter of compatibility. A Magister could force a drift easily. The Fist was a tool.

Fenris was a tool as well, but he was special. He was Danarius’ Fist, but he could also be paired with a second Fist, though it was still puppetry in the end, as Danarius ultimately held his leash. He didn't control Fenris’s mind, as he would other Fists, because there was no need. Fenris was loyal. As loyal as a favored dog.

Fenris fisted one hand, watching as the faint surge of blue ran under his skin, along the lines etched into his flesh. He had only recently stopped wearing gloves inside the training base. The dimly pulsing lines beneath his skin were nothing more than a dull throb, but the faint glow of color unsettled most.

He was grateful for the stolen memories. They were a sort of cloak, a buffer between his present self and his first true memories. Though those were little more than vague recollections of pain, they were memories he wished he didn’t have. They were from whatever had made him what he was: Danarius’ pet and a monster.

It was kaiju blood, Danarius told the men who came to admire his handiwork, standing around Fenris and studying every bare angle of him. Extremely expensive and difficult to get, and enough of it so that no matter where Fenris looked, he would see them on himself. There would always be an awed titter of gasps at this point, some of them shaking their heads, some stepping back in fear, the ones who had heard it before crossing their arms and leaning in closer. It hurt to touch, but Fenris was dulled to that long since. He still worried absently sometimes that the foreign substance would poison him, but he wasn’t sure he would mind if it did, and though he went through periods of time where every muscle ached and he would lie on the floor curled up in pain, it never seemed to really harm him.

While the markings weren’t connected to Fenris’s own system, they gave him what Danarius had fondly called his kaiju sense: he knew what a kaiju would do seconds before it did it. It was what made him better than any other Fist in Tevinter. He had those few seconds of reaction time that no one else could have. Danarius trusted him to make an instinctual move if he sensed danger, and he had treasured that honor. It made him sick now to remember how he would watch his master as if he were a god.

It didn’t mean that his Jaegers didn’t take damage. Fenris couldn’t count how many times he had blacked out for a few seconds after a particularly jarring blow, coming to with the metal collar digging into his neck, to look over and see them dragging away the dead body of the pilot next to him, locking the collar around another. Sometimes, they screamed and begged to be let free, but most of them had gotten that out of the way long before. It was a war that needed bodies, and the Magisters threw bodies at it with no regard. It was the drift distribution that was throwing him off now, he determined, swilling the wine over his tongue. It was bitter, like blood.

Perhaps he had been trained before the procedure that had given him his markings, but as no other slave in Tevinter was, he doubted it. They strapped them in and turned it on. For many, their first drift was their last. Fenris knew exactly how to take control of the entire subnet of the Jaeger’s movement, leaving everything else to the Magister. He was doing it here, too, but so instinctually he must not be realizing it, and the others, even Hawke and the ones who had fought before, had drifted with so few others that they didn’t know what he was doing. It was much harder to notice in the drift simulator anyway, since there was no Jaeger to move. In a real Jaeger, they would have noticed immediately that the machine was not responding to their movement. Fenris sighed. Who was Hawke to decide whether or not Fenris was compatible with someone else? It didn’t matter. You drifted with someone, and you fought. If you both came out of it only half-conscious with bloody noses, so what? It was winning that was important, wasn’t it? Fenris was very good at winning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't too much just rambling on. I wanted to make sure that I explained what I was imagining and how much it affected Fenris.


	3. Hawke's Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is a little awkward, but he means well.

Hawke stamped his feet and blew on his cold fingers. It had been snowing when he left the base, but by the time he reached the base of the mountain half an hour later, it was much worse, violent whorls of white obscuring the distant glow of Kirkwall.

“I thought you might show up,” Varric said.

A quick glance around did not reveal the familiar shock of white hair anywhere in the room, though it was a bit crowded. People were trying to stay warm, and Varric had ways of getting drinks that weren’t on the books.

“Fenris come in here?” Hawke asked, stuffing his wet gloves into his coat pocket and accepting the ale from the man across the counter.

“I gave him a room,” Varric said. “He came all the way down here in bare feet. He took a bottle up to the room and has orders to soak his feet in hot water. You do issue boots, don’t you?”

“For the life of me, I can’t get him to wear them,” Hawke groaned. And then he grinned. “Is that a new shirt, Varric? Or are your chest hairs reproducing so that it just looks like there are more of them?”

“Believe it or not, my chest hair is very popular. It’s been a busy night,” Varric chuckled. “Fenris is in room 28, second floor.” He caught Hawke’s sleeve. “No lectures. Tell him I'd send up another bottle but they've been scrutinizing my Tevinter imports so I haven’t gotten the next shipment in yet.”

“No lecture,” Hawke promised.

“And if he isn't soaking his feet give him a smack upside the head for me,” Varric called after him.

Hawke knocked and then gently pushed open the door.

Fenris was on his feet, his hand tucked into his jacket and gripping the handle of his hidden knife.

“Easy, Fenris. It’s just me.”

Fenris glared.

“I’m not here to bring you back. I just want to apologize.”

“For what?” Fenris growled.

“I made a bad decision today. I know you don’t get along with Merrill. I’m just running out of options.”

“I’m the one who should apologize,” Fenris said, relaxing slightly as he moved towards the fireplace. The steaming bucket of hot water sat untouched.

“It’s not you,” Hawke said, pushing the door closed behind him, “it takes time, sometimes.” Hawke wasn’t convinced himself, but he was trying. “Er, why don’t you sit down and soak your feet? Varric told me to smack you if you weren’t. If you do it now, I’ll pretend I didn’t see.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You walked all the way down here barefoot!”

Fenris shrugged.

“Just do it, ok? I don’t want to have to explain to Varric why you got frostbite and we had to remove several of your toes.”

Fenris made a scrunched frowning face. Hawke liked that face. It was the closest thing he’d seen to a smile from Fenris, even if his lips were turned the wrong way. Fenris set the nearly empty wine bottle on the mantel over the fire and knelt to roll up his pants. Hawke tried not to stare. The pale, pulsing tattoos on his feet continued up his legs. Hawke could have guessed this, but somehow he hadn’t thought about it. Now he was thinking about it, very abstractly. The tattoos must go up and up and… He shuddered and blinked before Fenris could look up and notice.

A second chair sat against the wall. Hawke went and very loudly scraped it across the floor so he could sit by the fireplace as well. Fenris raised an eyebrow and stared at him as he sat. Effortlessly gliding down onto the chair, Hawke noted. This man  _ was _ handsome.

“Let me see your foot,” he said, plopping into his own chair.

Fenris made another scrunched up face, this one much more suspicious and less like a bemused frown. Hawke liked the other one better.

“I want to see if it looks frostbitten.”

Fenris swung his leg up so fast he nearly kicked Hawke in the face. The blank look on his face when Hawke squawked and jolted back indicated that he had meant to do it and had had no intention of hitting him. Hawke grinned and pretended to lean forward and examine Fenris’s foot. He didn’t actually know anything about frostbite. It just looked like a very dirty cold foot. WIth lots of cuts and calluses on it.

“Uh, looks like it’s ok,” he said. “Hot water should help. It’s dirty.”

Fenris actually rolled his eyes at that and dropped first one foot and then the other into the bucket. He made the adorable scrunched up frowning face again and hissed under his breath.

He held his feet in the water though, his whole body stiff.

“You can relax,” Hawke said. “You're not in trouble. I came only to apologize. And for the beer.” He smiled his most charming smile. That worked on everyone. Fenris regarded him coolly, no trace of amusement. He was singlehandedly a tough crowd. Hawke sighed and took another drink.

“How long must I do this before you're satisfied?” Fenris asked.

“I'd say you should wait until the water starts to get cool.” Hawke shrugged.

Fenris shifted slightly in the chair and dropped his eyes back into the fire, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“You really should wear your boots,” Hawke said, “at least when you go out.”

“They pinch my feet.”

“You've been through six pairs! We've gone up two sizes since we started, and I'm pretty certain the ones you have are two sizes too large.”

Fenris scoffed and continued to look into the fire.

“I don't like them,” he said.

“What kind of shoes  _ do _ you like?”

“No shoes.”

“You need shoes up here. I'll look into alternatives.”

Fenris grimaced and sighed in lieu of replying. He wasn't trying to be rebellious towards his superior. Hawke was in charge of training the recruits after all. Fenris just  _ really _ didn't like shoes. The confined space made his markings heat up and the pressure made them ache.

Hawke had considered sending Fenris to a training base closer to his homeland, but Fenris had balked so violently that Hawke had given up on it immediately. The winters were long here, and Fenris was very unused to the cold. But if he wanted to stay, Hawke would do all he could to help him.

He grunted loudly and stood, draining the last of his drink. “I'll have Bethany come down and pick you up in the morning,” he said. “Half an hour before training starts. That shouldn't be a problem for you.”

Fenris shook his head.

Hawke left to pay Varric and start the long trek back up the hill to the base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if some of this is too slow and wordy, but I like being able to introduce how the characters interact. I'm not good at writing funny, so...I tried?


	4. Dubious Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strangers? Looking for Fenris? Not suspicious at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning, I guess? :: includes a hint of Fenris's relationship with Danarius, like half a sentence, but I don't believe that their relationship is so innocent, so it's natural that it would invade Fenris's memories

Fenris wished he had another bottle. He had never been allowed to drink while in Tevinter —slaves like him weren't allowed any such comforts, but the  _ Aggregio Pavali _ was Danarius’ favorite. Fenris had smelt it on his breath and tasted it on his lips many times. It was both a bitter reminder of the only life he'd known and an act of defiance. He was coming to really enjoy it too. Freedom had its benefits.

He pulled his feet from the bucket and left wet footprints on the wood on his way into the bathroom. He shrank from his reflection as he passed the mirror, his hard features and sharp eyes betraying an image of himself he hardly knew. As he pulled the towel from the rack with his right hand, he stroked the scars on his chin with his left thumb. They were impossible to hide and he tended to pick at the scarred skin around the edges of the blue markings. He hated the them. These, and the scars on his chest and thighs were the ones he recalled most vividly from his early memories. They had bled constantly, often spontaneously. He recalled waking up to the still-new pain, scrambling from his pallet when he tasted blood, only to find his mattress slick with it. Stains that Danarius had never bothered to have cleaned. They were probably still there, though Fenris had less frequently slept on the mattress on the floor, as he was called more often to attend his master during the night. 

He let down the hems of his pants and checked the room quickly for anything suspicious. He opened and closed the window, locking it securely before pulling the curtain shut. He locked the door last, looking both directions down the hall before doing so. Only then did he feel comfortable removing his jacket and the holster that kept his knife safely pressed against his ribs within easy reach. He lay the knife beside him, curling up on the bed with his back to the wall.

 

Hawke was almost halfway back to the base, bitterly regretting his decision to walk. It was windy and dark and  _ really _ cold. His gloves were still in his pockets, too wet to provide any warmth. He rubbed his hands together and muttered to himself. At least the snow accumulation was less on the road. He saw a pair of figures on the road ahead of him, not walking. They stood with their heads together, talking.

“You lost?” Hawke called, stamping forward. The men turned, surprised to meet anyone else on the road. Hawke recognized neither of them.

“Is this the way to Base Sundermount?”

“Yeah, the base is right up there, but unless you have either a recommendation to join or a visitor's pass, you won’t get in. I’d recommend turning back. There’s an inn at the bottom of this hill where you can stay. If you keep going, Kirkwall is a bit further.” Hawke turned to point.

“We are looking for someone,” one of the men said. He was tall, with black hair, sunken eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken at some point, maybe several times. Not particularly savory. Hawke turned as the second man spoke as well. This man was also thin, with wispy blond hair sticking out from underneath a tight cap. He looked like he had some bulk underneath his heavy coat, though. He gestured with his hands as he spoke.

“It’s an emergency,” he said. “He is not expecting us. You must help us find him!”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. Contact your friend, and he will get approval for you from me, you’ll get visitor’s passes, and then we can talk.”

“We do not have time! Can you tell us if he is in the base?” The second man asked.

“Who are you looking for?” Hawke shifted. His feet were uncomfortably cold.

“His name is Fenris. We believe he is here, and we have news for him.”

“Well, you’ll still have to have him get approval from me before you can see him.”

“How can we contact him?”

Hawke shrugged. “The usual ways. Call him, text him. Send him an email. Write him a letter.”

“We will do that then,” the first man said, grabbing the second man’s arm, “since he is here.”

Hawke stepped back as they brushed past him. Without even a glance over their shoulders or a word of thanks, the men hurried into the thick snow. Hawke grumbled to himself as they disappeared into a blast of flakes and continued his own trek up the slope.

 

Varric offered a cheerful smile to the two men who arrived with a gust of freezing air and a dusting of snow. They shook their heads and brushed off their coats. It was getting late, and the bar in the common room was emptying. The men claimed two barstools and ordered drinks.

“It’s a late night to be out,” Varric commented, hoping to draw the men into conversation.

“We have traveled far today,” the taller of the two said.

“Where are you from?”

“We need to contact someone in the base,” the man said, instead of replying. “It’s an emergency. We do not have any contact information for him, though. Where might we find help?”

“That’s a bit of a puzzler you have there,” Varric said, leaning on the bar and rubbing thick fingers down his jaw. “Can’t really get in and see anyone unless you’ve talked to them first.”

The men nodded.

“Any chance you know your friend’s name?”

“Fenris,” they said, almost in unison, watching Varric eagerly. Varric smiled.

“You’re in luck, my friends, I know the guy. I’ve seen him a few times.”

“How may we contact him?”

“The usual ways,” Varric said, drawing out the words. Fenris was likely asleep, and needed his time alone. The men could wait.

“It’s urgent,” the shorter man said, narrowing his eyes. They were uncannily bright and restless.

“Fenris isn’t going anywhere,” Varric said, walking away to collect someone else’s empty glass. “How do you two know him? He doesn’t seem to know anyone from around these parts.”

“We are old friends,” the taller man said, frowning as he took a drink. Neither of the men stopped watching Varric. He was beginning to feel a little uneasy. But he was tired, and it had been a long evening. Just because the men were strangers didn’t make them suspicious.

“It’s an emergency,” the man pressed. He scratched at his short, dark beard and sniffed, his nose running a bit from the cold.

“An emergency?”

“It’s his sister,” the younger man provided. “We feel he should know.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said, suddenly softening. He came back to stand in front of the men. “She alright? I didn’t know he had a sister.”

“Fenris needs to know immediately,” the taller man said, pushing away his drink so that he could lean forward.

“He’s here now,” Varric said. “I can take you up there—”

They were already standing, the shorter man hurriedly downing the remainder of his drink.

“Where is he?”

“Second floor,” Varric said, “Twenty eight.” He started to follow, but they were already halfway across the room. They would find it just fine, but Varric felt that Hawke should know. He pulled a phone from beneath the bar and dialed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying it, or at least finding it moderately entertaining. I can be verbose at times, and I have a tendency to want to describe even mundane things. Hopefully it's not too bad!


	5. In Self-Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris receives his less-than-cordial guests in kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing nemesis: fight scenes.

Fenris snapped awake to someone knocking—no, pounding—on his door. He grabbed his knife and slid snakelike from the bed. Dropping soundlessly to the floor, he tried to look under the door, but he couldn't see anything. It was probably just Hawke or Varric, but one could never be too careful.

He opened the door a crack and immediately a gun presented itself, the mouth pressed against the underside of his jaw. He let go of the door and backed into the room as the man holding the gun walked forward. A second man behind him closed the door.

Fenris still held the knife clutched in his hand.

They wouldn’t want him dead. Danarius wouldn’t want him dead. They would know better than to shoot him now. When they moved, he’d kill them just as he killed every other mercenary Danarius sent after him, a trail of bloody corpses, all leading right here. Fenris watched them with sharp eyes as they watched him, neither quite daring to make a move.

“So, we’ve found you at last,” the tall man said coolly.

“What now?”

The man stepped back, keeping the gun still trained on Fenris.

“You’ll come with us. If you’re quiet we won’t even tie you up. You’ve been disobedient.”

“Disobedience implies justice to correct it. Where I came from, there was no justice.”

“Cocky, are we?”

Fenris suddenly leapt forward, blindly hoping to catch the man off guard. He dodged away from the gun and lashed out to knock it from the man’s hand. The panicked shot caught him in the arm before he was out of the way. It burned for a moment, and then the side of Fenris’s hand collided with the man’s wrist and the gun flew to the floor. The second man had jumped forward as well, but stayed back a pace, knife in hand, watching for an opening.

Fenris dropped and swung a leg out, toppling the taller man to the floor. Hopping back, he glanced aside just long enough to see where the gun had landed. He kicked it and it slid away to collide with the far wall. In that moment, the second man surged forward in an attempt to wrestle Fenris to the ground.

Fenris was quicker than he had anticipated, though. He dodged a slash at his leg just in time. The tall man was scrambling for his gun. Fenris barely got to it before him. The man leapt onto Fenris and tried to wrestle him for the weapon. As Fenris struggled, the second man grabbed at him as well. They thrust him towards the wall and his forehead collided with a painful thud. His vision darkened for a moment. With the desperation of a cornered wolf, he snarled and flung the men a step back away from him, whirling to slam his back against the wall. He held the gun in one hand, his knife in the other.

The men weren't about to give up, though. He was reluctant to shoot and draw any more attention than the first shot would have already aroused, but Fenris would if he had to. Before he really had time to prepare himself, the two men rushed at him. Fenris’s finger flashed on the trigger, but he missed, firing instead upwards between the two men. The taller man slammed Fenris’s arm against the wall with his shoulder and the gun fell from his limp fingers. The second man had an unfortunate meeting with Fenris’s knife. The cut wasn’t deep, but blood flowered on the man’s sleeve. As the tall man grabbed Fenris’s arm and twisted, pulling him away, the second man ducked behind the swing of his arm and caught his wrist. Suspended between them, Fenris growled and kicked, catching the dark-haired man in the gut. He staggered back, stumbling over the gun and into the chair still sitting by the now-dim fireplace. Pulling the second man with him, Fenris leaned down to grab the gun. He came back up to find the man behind him, his knife against Fenris’s throat. 

Fenris froze. His arm ached and he could feel the hot blood trickling from the gunshot. He very carefully adjusted his grip on the gun so that his finger rested on the trigger. The taller man had recovered, kicking the chair away, and stood facing them.

For a few long seconds, Fenris just stood, matching the man’s glare with his own, his green eyes flashing in the dim light that came from the dying fire. He tipped his head ever so slightly forward, letting the edge of the knife cut a shallow line across his throat and then threw it back, his skull colliding with the man's nose. The man collapsed and Fenris stepped away, glancing down for a moment to fire a final shot into the man's chest. The tall man was on him in that instant; Fenris turned back only to have the man's fist collide with the side of his face.

Dropping the gun, Fenris staggered back. Instinctively, he still clung to his knife. He dimly saw the man bending down to pick up the dropped weapon. Fenris jumped forward, crashing his knee against the man’s head. The man flew back and Fenris kicked the gun behind himself, pacing to where the man lay gasping. Fenris knelt, grabbing the man's hair and laying his knife across his throat. The man grabbed at his shirt, suddenly pleading. Fenris slit his eyes and pulled the knife across the man's throat quickly. Blood spurted from the force of the cut, spattering across Fenris’s face and clothes.

He wiped the knife on the man's jacket and stood. He rubbed his forearm across his face, but there was blood there too, so he came out looking worse than before. Scuffing the man aside, Fenris looked around to see how bad the room looked. Not bad, overall. Just a bit of blood. The door opened and Fenris whirled, baring his teeth. Gritting them against the pain he was beginning to feel really, but he was fierce when Varric kicked the door fully open.


	6. Cold Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is being hunted (surprise, surprise) and now he has a couple dead bodies to dispose of.

Varric was short and stocky, with blond hair pulled back in a half ponytail. He held an old stocky crossbow, well preserved and carved with beautiful inlaid designs. The thick dart poised at Fenris was intended to do damage though. Fenris lowered his knife and Varric relaxed.

“What the hell, Fenris?” He looked around at the signs of the scuffle.

Fenris just stood, heart pounding.

“They came to give you news about your sister! You didn't have to kill them.”

“I don't have a sister. They attacked me.”

“You're bleeding pretty good there.” Varric leaned the crossbow against the doorframe and stepped inside. “But I don't get why they'd attack you? You're not outside the law, are you?”

Fenris snorted. “They're from Tevinter.” He knelt to examine the pockets of the tall man's jacket. He found what he was looking for. Without even unfolding the letter, he passed the piece of paper to Varric.

“Read this,” he said.

Varric opened began to scan the page.

“A-aloud, please,” Fenris interrupted, turning to also examine the second man's pockets. Varric eyed him for a moment as he fished a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. He commenced reading in a low, clear voice.

“The slave has been traced to the north. On his way to Base Sundermount to join the Jaeger pilots, predictably. He thought to lose us in the snow. Find him and bring him back alive by any means necessary. He will put up a fight, so be sure of your methods. Danarius only requires him alive. His condition upon returning is irrelevant.”

Varric looked up, puzzled.

“It's signed _H_.”

Fenris tossed both men's wallets into the bed and kept his gaze averted.

“This you?” Varric asked.

“Please don't speak of this to Hawke.” Fenris stooped to lift the shorter man in his arms.

“What about me?” Hawke said, breathless, suddenly filling the doorway behind Varric. His eyes widened when he saw the bodies, and the blood on Fenris’s face and throat.

Varric folded the letter and gave Fenris a look. Fenris sighed, shifting the man in his arms. He looked incongruous, his slim, slight body carrying the body of a man taller and more muscular than himself.

“Did you kill these men?” Hawke staggered into the room, snow falling from his coat and melting from his mop of dark hair.

Fenris sighed. “I can explain. Just...let me take care of the bodies first.”

“I'll help,” Hawke said, bending to grab the wrist of the taller man and pulling him into an awkward bundle. The man's head fell, his eyes white and rolled back in his head. Varric stepped aside, grabbing his crossbow as he let them pass.

“How do you plan on doing this?” Hawke said as he let Fenris walk ahead of him.

“The cliffs,” Fenris said.

The steep cliffs east of the Hanged Man had contributed to the name of the inn. It was a sheer drop hundreds of feet to the ocean below. In former ages, pirates and rebels would be hung from the cliffs as examples to others. The road above the cliff was unfrequented, especially in the small hours of the morning. Hawke wasn't sure how Fenris knew of them, but it would be a good place to dispose of the bodies. It would look like two unfamiliar travelers had lost their footing. The fish would destroy any evidence of the men's more violent than accidental deaths.

They were nearly there when Hawke, contemplating his poor cold toes, noticed the still-bare feet of the man ahead of him.

“Fenriiiiiiiiiis!” Hawke wailed, loud enough that Fenris stopped and turned around.

“What's wrong?”

“You're still barefoot!”

Fenris shrugged and turned to continue on, but he did seem to have slowed his pace. Hawke watched him carefully, but Fenris trudged doggedly on. Hawke didn’t know how he managed. His own feet were frozen through.

Hawke tried to watch for the bodies to hit the water after their unceremonious dumping, but it was too dark to see anything. Fenris had already turned back, his arms huddled against himself for warmth.

“Are you sure you can walk?” Hawke called, staggering forward to put a hand on the other man's shoulder.

“I'm fine,” Fenris said, shaking him off.

They were nearly back when Fenris stumbled and landed with his arms elbows-deep in the wet snow. He made no immediate movement to stand.

Hawke rushed forward, grabbing Fenris’s shoulder and hoisting him upright. Fenris balled his fists and started forward again. His lips were disturbingly blue. Hawke didn't let go, pulling him back.

“You're going to hurt yourself,” he said, sweeping an arm behind Fenris’s legs and lifting him off his feet.

“This is unnecessary,” Fenris grumbled, but he didn't move to extricate himself. He grabbed at Hawke's coat, hooking one arm behind the taller man's broad shoulders.

Hawke huffed as he trudged through the heavy snow drifts, sweat running down his temples and into the scruff of his beard. Fenris clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling. His toes were curled and every muscle was tense.

“I hope you'll reconsider wearing boots now,” Hawke panted, shouldering through the back door of the Hanged Man's kitchen. A single employee stood at the other end of the dim room, pouring a glass of wine for a guest. He let Fenris down, carefully. Fenris winced, grabbing the taller man’s arm for support.

“Not much farther,” Hawke said, pulling Fenris quickly into the hall. Fenris looked awful under the fluorescent lights, too pale even with his dark skin. His grey jacket was stained with blood,  and though he'd rubbed at his face, there was still blood across both cheekbones and on his neck. His legs swung loosely as he lagged behind Hawke, trailing his way back upstairs to his room. The blood had been mopped up from the floor, the fire had been built back up, and now two steaming tubs of water waited by the fireplace.

Hawke pulled Fenris out of his jacket and rubbed his arms, muttering under his breath.

“You have to get out of those wet pants,” he said, steering him towards the bathroom. “I'll have Varric find you something to wear. And socks,” he said, stomping from the room in his heavy boots. Fenris braced himself against the counter top in the bathroom. The adrenaline from the fight had long since drained away, and now he only felt ice running through his veins. His whole body shook. He couldn’t control it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the next bit. I hope it's not too slow. I have so many words inside of me, they just spill out, firehose-style.


	7. R&R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Rest & Recovery after all this excitement.

It felt like a bad drift. Fenris remembered the first time it had happened, coming to as the handler released the collar around his neck and he staggered from the cockpit, his whole body trembling. He'd fallen, curled up in a shivering ball, sucking in breath with difficulty. There was no rhythm to the shuddering spasms. The other Fist was dead. He heard them open the escape hatch and toss the man's body out.

His irregular breathing, the shivering, the cold sweat on his forehead—this felt nearly the same. Fenris clutched the counter, unable to move. All he could do was try to breathe. After a few moments, teeth chattering, he managed to pull off his wet pants and kick them aside. Then his legs gave way and his knees hit the floor. He curled forward and rested his forehead against the front panel of the bathroom counter.

“Varric found you a pair of sweatpants,” Hawke called, throwing open the door of the room. “Fenris?”

Fenris’s mind whirled now. Memory after memory assaulted his trembling frame. Screaming as the last rush of memories from a dying drift companion flashed in front of his vision. _Feeling_ them die. He moaned and ground his forehead into the wall.

Hawke was there behind him in an instant.

“Fenris! What’s wrong?”

He felt the warm pressure of a hand on his shoulder, Hawke pulling him to his feet. His body had no desire to stand, but Fenris could make his body do things it didn’t think it could do. He stood, and walked, although _staggered_ was more descriptive of his uneven gait, as Hawke pulled him towards the fire.

“Sit,” he said, and Fenris collapsed into the chair.

Hawke pulled a log from beside the fireplace and threw it on the fire. It dimmed for a moment as the fire caught, and then billowed even higher.

Fenris was still seeing fragments of bad memories behind his eyelids. Each blink seemed to bring a fresh pain and another shudder. Hawke had dropped to one knee, and was lifting his feet, dropping them into the tub of comfortably warm water. From somewhere, a thick blanket appeared on his knees. Fenris realized his arms were wrapped around him, clinging to his shirt. The elbows of the shirt were wet, and it was thin, but he gripped it close nonetheless. Hawke threw a second blanket over his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve gone and made yourself sick,” he said, dropping into his own chair. Fenris only heard him distantly, like someone having a conversation at the table next to you and you are only absently eavesdropping. Hawke pulled off his boots and threw them aside, rolling up his wet pants and sliding his feet into the second bucket of water. He sighed happily.

“That feels so much better,” he said.

Fenris stared blankly into the fire. The memories were starting to recede. He could feel his feet now, and they prickled uncomfortably, but the water seemed to ease away any pain. Slowly, he came back to where he was. He shifted to grab the edges of the blanket over his shoulders and pulled it around himself.

Hawke stood up quickly with a suddenness that made Fenris start. The water sloshed as Hawke stepped out of the bucket to retrieve a bottle of wine and two glasses from over the fireplace.

“Varric found us another bottle,” he said, “compliments of the house.” He sat back down, carefully depositing the glasses beside his chair, and wrestled with the cork until he had it off. “It’s not Tevinter, unfortunately, but he thinks you might like it.”

Fenris accepted the glass cautiously. He only drank the _Aggregio Pavali_ , never any other wine, and only because it made him feel free. He didn’t know if he would like anything else. Hawke didn’t seem to be watching him too closely, more concerned with his own drink and how good the water felt on his feet, so Fenris sniffed it cautiously. It had the same heavy smell, so he ventured a sip. It was good. He felt the warmth of it blossom inside him, friendly and comforting. It was a little less bitter, and it helped soothe away the last shreds of Fenris’s bad memories of drifts gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Hawke saw when Fenris nodded forward, exhausted. His wine glass had been emptied several times and then deposited on the floor and now he was asleep, his hands tucked against his stomach and the blanket falling lopsided from one shoulder.

Hawke studied him for several more minutes, savoring the last of his wine. It wasn’t really his thing, but this was pretty good. The sight of the other man asleep was a new one for Hawke. Fenris rarely relaxed among the recruits at the base, and never so much as to fall asleep in another person’s presence. He must have been very tired. Hawke wondered if he could get him into bed without waking him. It was worth a try. It was well into the morning by now and the water around Hawke’s feet was cold. Fenris grunted as Hawke shifted him, but didn’t wake.

Hawke laid him on the sheet and tried to dry his feet. Fenris suddenly started awake and pulled away, his hand going instantly to where his knife should have been, but it was still lying on the table beside the bed, where it had somehow ended up after the fight, probably thanks to Varric’s tidying.

“It’s just me,” Hawke said. “You fell asleep.”

Fenris looked terrified, like he’d been cornered.

“Your feet look alright,” Hawke commented, tossing the towel on top of the feet in question. “But you will have to see Anders tomorrow. Well, actually, it’s today now.”

Fenris scowled.

“I’m sharing the bed with you, by the way,” Hawke added, hefting both buckets of water in either hand. “So I’d get comfortable and try to get to sleep now. I’ve been told I snore.”

Fenris threw off the towel and reluctantly slid under the covers. The sooner he got to sleep, the sooner he could pretend that none of this had ever happened. After retrieving his knife, he curled so that he was facing the wall, as close to the edge of the bed as he could get.

Hawke didn’t say anything more. He fell asleep quickly, and slept deeply. Fenris, on the other hand, woke every half hour, feeling Hawke shift on the mattress. Hawke did snore, and loudly. Fenris sighed and curled in on himself, trying even harder to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am enjoying this, but I feel like it's going to take me a long time to get where I'm going at this rate...


	8. Anders, Physician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to the base, Fenris has to see Anders, resident physician, to have his previous evening's injuries examined. He's not precisely thrilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter, because I had to keep all the Anders part together. I like seeing different au interpretations of Anders' pro-mage opinions. I tried?

When Hawke finally began to wake up, Fenris stiffened immediately, having been awake now for a while with no hope of going back to sleep again.

“Is it morning already?” Hawke grumbled. Fenris didn’t reply. Hawke checked the time on his phone and groaned loudly. Thinking Fenris was still asleep, he flailed an arm behind him and shook Fenris’s shoulder.

“Time to get up,” he said, pushing himself up as well.

“Enough,” Fenris said, pushing Hawke’s hand away. “I am awake.”

They readied in relative silence. Fenris’s clothes were now dry, though his jacket was a little damp at the seams. Hawke insisted on his wearing it anyway.

Varric greeted them in the dining room with two plates of breakfast. Hawke had hoped to get some details from Fenris, but he was noncommunicative. He had dropped off too quickly after finishing his wine the previous night for Hawke to speak to him then. And now Bethany came in, a flurry of sunshine and snowflakes.

“We’ll be late,” she said, pulling at her brother’s arm. “Cullen is furious.”

“Cullen be damned,” Hawke muttered, shoving another bite in his mouth.

Bethany threw up her hands, and moved instead to Fenris.

“How are you?” She asked, putting her hands on his shoulders.

He shook her off and bent his head down to continue eating.

“He’s been very rash,” Hawke muttered. “I insist that he see Anders as soon as we get back.”

“I’m in a hurry, Garrett,” Bethany said, fluttering to stand behind her brother again.

“Alright, alright, we’re coming.” Hawke stood, nudging Fenris as well.

Varric hurried to catch Hawke before he left. Fenris was already outside with Bethany.

“I think we’ll need to talk about what happened last night,” he said, “at some point.”

“I don’t even know what any of that was about,” Hawke said. “I’m not sure how soon he’ll open up to me.”

“I might have some idea of what’s going on,” Varric all but whispered. More loudly, he said, “Get that man some shoes!” He grinned, clapping Hawke on the back and turning back to his work.

“Oh, I will,” Hawke muttered to himself, following his sister and Fenris outside.

 

Fenris said nothing on the drive back, just folded his arms and frowned.

“You'd better hurry if you don't want to be late,” Bethany smiled over her shoulder as she pulled up to the imposing concrete and metal building.

“Actually, he's coming with me to find Anders,” her brother said.

“I'm fine,” Fenris muttered, slamming the door.

“I'll believe it when Anders tells me you're fine. You were fine right before you collapsed in the snow too.”

Fenris padded silently behind his superior. He was short on patience, tired, and his arm felt terrible. When he'd looked over it this morning, it looked like the bullet had not done much lasting damage. It hurt like hell, though.

He had a cut on his forehead that was hidden by his hair and the one on his neck was puckered together now, an ugly dark line.

Anders rubbed him the wrong way, though he really didn't have much room for complaint against the man. Anders had done nothing to hurt him. Anders didn't have a PhD or even a degree, yet here he was practicing as the doctor for the entire training base.

He was one of the men who had learned the trade by necessity. Fenris had heard that Anders had all but dedicated his soul to his profession, but without a practicing license, Fenris saw no reason to trust him. A fake doctor with years of experience was still a fake, and dangerous to those around him. Danarius had claimed to be a scientist as well, and Fenris would never be rid of the scars.

Anders claimed to be just as good as a licensed doctor, expostulating nonsense about the ridiculous cost of medical school and the scrutiny of doctors all in the name of political correctness over actual attention to a patient's needs. It was an easy step, as easy as blinking, to go from practicing without a license to performing questionable procedures and handing out drugs to anyone who asked for them. And Anders seemed easily played. He wore his emotions on his sleeve.

 

Fenris sat as still and cold as a statue on the examination bench. Hawke leaned against the door, arms folded, as he explained to Anders what needed to be seen to.

“He walked to the Hanged Man  _ barefoot _ , got in some sort of scuffle there and walked barefoot to the cliffs and most of the way back. I carried him after he collapsed. There was a lot of blood, so I know he got hurt somewhere.”

Anders nodded, intent on preparing his tools.

“I'll need you to remove your shirt,” he said. “Where were you injured?”

Fenris, still scowling, shrugged out of his coat. He unclasped the chest harness and lay it carefully beside him, watching Anders carefully as he did so. He winced as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Anders saw the problem immediately. He grabbed Fenris’s arm and raised it so that he could see it better in the light

“I'll need to clean it,” he said. He was altogether too close to Fenris. Fenris held his chin up disdainfully. He could smell disinfectant, what smelled like vanilla, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke.

“What happened to your neck?” Anders backed away just enough to place his hands to either side of Fenris’s throat, running his thumbs along the barely mended slit. Fenris held his breath, one hand clutching his balled-up shirt, the other scrabbling for his knife. He didn't pull it from its sheath, but he desperately wanted to. A moment later, Anders had moved on.

“That shouldn't scar,” he said. “It pulled together well, no thanks to whatever antics you were pulling. Your arm, on the other hand,” he pulled on a pair of latex gloves that made Fenris shiver.

“I'll have to reopen it to clean it.”He pulled his mask up from where it hung around his neck. “It may be infected.”

He pushed Fenris gently back until he was lying down. Fenris still clung to his knife, but he didn't resist, mostly thanks to Hawke's presence in the room. Hawke wouldn't let Anders hurt him. Anders produced a small needle, emptying it quickly into the flesh above the wound. Fenris  flinched.

“That should numb the muscle a bit,” Anders said, his voice muffled slightly through the mask.

“Does this hurt?” He started probing at the torn skin.

Fenris shook his head, jaw clenched. He was clinging to the edge of the bed. Of course it hurt. The procedure didn't take long. Anders wrapped up his arm and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat.

“You'll have to avoid putting weight on it for a few days so any damage to the muscle doesn’t get worse,” he said. Fenris shrugged, sliding back into his shoulder harness, placing a palm against the comforting shape of the knife against his ribs. Not bothering to put on his shirt or jacket, Fenris got up and tried to barrel past Hawke.

“Not so fast,” Hawke said. “There’s still your feet that must be looked to.”

Fenris sighed, defeated. He didn’t move until Hawke gently unfolded his arms and pushed him back towards the bench where Anders was waiting. Fenris knew he was behaving like a petulant child. Anders was respectful, something Fenris hadn’t expected of him, busying himself unnecessarily with his instruments as Fenris returned and slouched again on the edge of the table.

Anders bent to pull out a metal sort of scaffolding from under the lip of the table, which locked into place at a comfortable angle under Fenris’s heels. Pulling out a low stool, Anders sat and very carefully placed a hand atop one of Fenris’s feet, drawing his face closer to look at them. Fenris curled his fingers against the surface on which he sat, trying not to stare at the dirty blond head bent over his feet. Anders’ hair was silky, and not really dirty blond, Fenris thought, but closer to a deep honey color. It was escaping in snaky tendrils from his hair tie and brushing against his hunched shoulders. When Fenris swallowed, he felt like it was the loudest thing in the room. He glanced at Hawke, but Hawke was checking his phone, completely distracted.

“They...do not hurt,” Fenris ventured, when Anders still prodded very gently without saying anything.

“I would have expected to see more damage, given the circumstances,” Anders said, head still bent. “I think you very nearly had frostbite, as the skin is still a little harder than I would expect...but you seem to be getting adequate circulation. Did you soak your feet in water afterwards?”

Fenris nodded.

“Was the water warm, or hot?”

Fenris looked to Hawke.

“It was warm,” Hawke said, looking up, “not too hot.”

Anders nodded. “I think you narrowly escaped,” he said, dropping the metal prop and standing up. “You should take more care to protect your feet this time of year. I can’t even say why you didn’t get frostbite after that much time exposed to the cold. Pure luck, probably. I would not advise going out again without any protection.”

“I understand,” Fenris said, glaring from where he had quickly retreated to stand beside Hawke.

“Thanks, Anders,” Hawke said cheerily. “I was worried when he collapsed.”

“I suppose that was due to exhaustion,” Anders said, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into a sterile trash bin. “He was going on adrenaline and when that ran out,  _ zap _ !” He snapped his fingers. “His whole body wanted to shut down. The cold just sucks it right out.”

“I’ll see you in the simulator this afternoon, right?” Hawke said.

Anders nodded. “Karl and I will be there. He’s still in Kirkwall at school. I have a few more things to see to here, and then I will be in the training room until then.”

“Fenris, since you missed training this morning, perhaps you should go with Anders and catch up. He’s one of our backup pilots, but he’s compatible with Karl so they are training to become a team. He can help you find exercises that won’t injure your arm.”

Fenris glowered, but bowed and excused himself. He couldn’t disobey, but he ground his teeth. That quack doctor and his doe-eyed, milky-skinned boyfriend were the last people Fenris wanted to be around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is just going to be this way. We're going to go slow because I'm slow. I hope you don't mind. :)


	9. Giving Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris reluctantly instructs Karl and Anders.

Fenris despised Karl almost more than he disliked Anders, but Hawke had asked him to train with them, so he went. The small room was empty with the exception of the other two men. Anders called him over immediately. Fenris was dressed in his usual, a black long-sleeved shirt that clung to every line of his sculpted body, and slim black pants that also managed to only make him more visible. He kept his head erect as he walked, stopping several paces away from the other two.

“Karl and I have agreed that we should do some sparring today. I'd rather avoid any weight training or exercises which would irritate your arm.” Anders reached for him, but Fenris pulled back.

“You're an excellent martial artist,” Karl chimed in, “we can learn a lot from you.”

Fenris resigned himself to a tedious afternoon. Neither Anders nor Karl had much experience, and Fenris didn't know how to instruct them. Everything he knew was from muscle memory and repetition. When Anders stopped him and showed him a page from the training manual that had some rough illustrations of a man sparring with a pole, and then the same man presumably in a Jaeger cockpit, Fenris just shook his head.

“You’ve fought in one before,” Anders said, “surely you can explain how this move will help.”

Fenris looked back at the page, all the words running together. Just black marks on white. None of it meant anything to him. He shook his head. “Just keep practicing,” he grunted, turning away to aim several roundhouse kicks at a thick punching bag.

Karl took the page from Anders and mimicked the move described in the manual as a particularly effective one to use from a Jaeger. Anders mirrored him, and they practiced together until Fenris had burned himself out on the punching bag. This time Karl approached him as Fenris glared daggers from behind his water bottle. He drank noisily and Karl waited patiently until he was done.

“Perhaps you can watch us and tell us what to correct,” Karl offered, “if you don't want to actually spar with us.”

Fenris sighed. “You're too timid.” He nodded towards Anders. “He is too offensive. He leaves himself open to attack.”

“So help us. Hawke—”

“I know,” Fenris said, throwing down his water. “I'll help. You first.”

He settled into a defensive stance. Karl mimicked, swallowing nervously.

Fenris let him make the first move, but easily predicted and countered his attack.

“Faster,” Fenris said. “Try again.”

Karl tried again, and Fenris easily blocked him.

“Better. Again.”

He caught Karl’s arm as he lunged forward.

“Stiffen your wrist. Like this. You're swinging too far out. Jab forward and you'll be faster.” He moved to stand out of the way and then pulled Karl’s arm forward, so he could feel the right motion. “Try again.”

Karl frowned and tried to mimic the movement.

Fenris nodded. “Practice that. You'll get faster.” He turned to Anders.

“You want me to do that too?” Anders said in a quivering voice. Fenris shook his head. “Your defense is weak.” He motioned Anders onto the sparring mat. As Anders placed himself opposite Fenris, Fenris locked eyes with an intensity that made Anders’ throat feel dry.

“I'm going to attack you,” Fenris said. “And you try to block me.”

Karl paused to watch as Fenris lunged forward. Anders blocked him, just barely, and stumbled back. Fenris nodded. “You lose your footing, you lose the fight. The kaiju will take advantage of you if you get off-balance. You attack me now, and watch.”

Anders’ attack was fast, but his follow-through made it weak. Fenris easily swiped it aside and followed up with a retaliating kick that set Anders back a few steps. Karl turned to approach.

“Keep practicing,” Fenris growled. “He isn't hurt.”

“What was that?” Anders said darkly.

“Your attack left you open,” Fenris said. “Do it again.”

Anders hesitated.

“I want to show you how to improve,” Fenris said impatiently. Anders moved forward again and Fenris caught his arm.

“How are you so fast?” Anders muttered.

“When you step forward, take a larger step,” Fenris said, hooking a foot behind Anders’ ankle and pulling it toward him until Anders shuffled his foot forward. “Lean into it a little more. This will make your attack stronger and move your center of balance lower. You're less likely to fall. And angle your arm in a little more. You don't want to punch the kaiju in the arm. It might not have an arm. Go for its body.” He let go and stepped back, pressing his hands to his chest, palms flattened towards the ceiling. “Most kaiju have higher centers of gravity. In a Jaeger, you're bigger. You can knock it off balance.”

He stepped forward again. Anders was still holding his pose, nodding vaguely. Fenris grabbed his other arm, tucked in a loose fist against his side and pulled it up.

“You have to keep your other arm up, so if the kaiju counters your attack, you're not leaving yourself wide open. Anders looked over at him and suddenly realized just how close Fenris was to him.

He smelled of sweat and heat, and his black shirt was wet with it. His eyes were dark and rimmed with the stunning emerald that was so uncommon. He was looking down, his head tilted to one side. Anders could see the scrape on his forehead from the previous night's scuffle. His hair was pulled back, but it was almost too short. Several white locks had escaped and clung to the sweat on his neck and temples. The scars on his chin looked uneven from this close and Anders could see where the skin had been cut to accommodate whatever had been done, and had healed rough without treatment.

“I said _make a fist_ ,” Fenris said, looking up irritably, and Anders realized he had missed what Fenris had been saying. Anders tightened the muscles in his arm.

“Let's try again,” Fenris said, stepping back. “You attack first.” Anders was still hesitant. Fenris stepped back, easily avoiding him.

“Lean into it! You want to knock me over! Again!”

They continued another half hour until Hawke showed up, looking for Anders and Karl.

“I thought you two would be already waiting to do your simulator training. You're still here?”

“We lost track of time,” Anders said. “We'll be right there.” They ran to towel off the sweat and whisper by the wall. Karl ran a hand through Anders’ hair, pulling out his hair tie.

“You looked so _good_.” Karl murmured. Fenris huffed and freed his own hair before scrubbing his face with a towel. He wasn't sweating so much since the last half hour he had been instructing the other two, but the small, poorly circulated room was hot and stuffy. He tried to leave, but Hawke caught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, we're going to be on a slow ride. Sorry about that. I like to make things last. In this installment, we dwell on how Karl and Anders aren't really that good at...hand to hand combat.


	10. Fenris has a Dinner Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the chapter titles. I shouldn't have started it, because I'm the worst at chapter titles...
> 
> Anders and Karl are drift-mates, Isabela almost catches Fenris in the act, and Hawke invites Fenris to dinner.

Hawke stood in the doorway and leaned against the frame to stop Fenris from leaving the training room. 

“How's your arm?” 

Fenris shrugged.

“Did you want to come watch the simulation?”

“I know how it works.”

“It's supposed to get easier to drift with people over time, not harder. There has to be someone you can train with.”

“I think not, Hawke.”

“Well, I guess we can do another individual simulation for you tomorrow. It's not really made for that.”

Fenris shrugged. They both knew that he knew too much about Jaegers to need more practice.

“Or…we can have a talk. Maybe if I knew more...I could better help.”

He wanted to know about who Fenris drifted with in Tevinter. If Hawke could could find someone of a similar temperament, maybe he could find Fenris a drift partner. Fenris’s shoulders drooped just slightly. He didn't have the heart to tell Hawke that they didn't care about compatibility where he came from. Drifting was supposed to be taxing and painful. It was a battle, not a dance.

“I don't need to know details,” Hawke said. “I just want to know what he was like.”

“ _ He _ ,” Fenris almost spat.

“Or she,” Hawke added quickly.

Fenris opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. Karl and Anders had fallen silent. They weren't coming any closer, but they were ready to go with Hawke.

Hawke knew he had been close. He huffed. “Will you meet me tonight for dinner?”

Fenris nodded, very quickly before turning away.

He dropped to the mat once the room was empty. While flexibility wasn't necessarily a useful attribute for a Jaeger pilot, he like to maintain it nonetheless. As he stretched, he noted the sheet from Karl's notebook, discarded on the floor. He went to pick it up. A quick glance was enough to remind him just how impossible it felt to learn to decipher this on his own. He took it back to his room anyway.

The tiny room allowed to recruits had hardly room for the narrow bed and the desk, the standard issue trunk, and a desk chair. Fenris had arrived with nothing, so his room was as bare as it had been when he arrived. He opened the trunk and shifted his spare uniform to get at the handful of paper scraps underneath.

He'd managed to get a pen and a notepad from one of the other recruits who would have thrown them out otherwise. He spread the page from the training manual alongside the rest of his meager collection. This was his first item with pictures on it. He started comparing it to the first of his other two scraps and panicked when at first glance nothing matched. Then, with a sinking feeling, he realized that he'd been looking at the others upside-down.

His list of characters was all wrong and he'd have to start over. He placed his name tag in front of him. When he turned his other paper over, now he could match the letters, where before he hadn't been able to. He slumped forward with a groan. But of course.

He snapped upright as his door opened behind him, his hand going to his ribs. But he wasn't wearing his knife. He'd been threatened with confiscation if he wore it in the base.

“There you are, kitten!”

“Isabela,” Fenris growled, hurriedly shuffling his papers together. She reached over him and snatched out the page from Karl's manual.

“Studying! Ugh! This is so boring. Come on, we should go walk around and take a look at the Jaegers.”

“Not today,” Fenris said, reaching for the paper.

“I'll help you study,” Isabela said, handing it back and throwing herself on his bed.

“Read the first bit to me. I'll see if I can remember what comes after.”

Fenris’s throat went suddenly dry. His heart seized and the markings swam in front of his eyes. Hadriana used to sit him down and thrust books into his hands, telling him to read to her.

No matter what he did—stutter, plead, lie—it resulted in punishment when he got it wrong. And he always got it wrong.

“My eyes hurt,” he said, flattening the paper on his desk. “I was just putting it away.”

“Maybe if you wore your glasses,” Isabela purred, rolling onto her stomach.

Fenris grimaced. That eye exam he'd had to take in order to join was the most humiliating experience he'd had since his escape. He had been immeasurably grateful when, instead of asking him to read the letters, the doctor had asked if he could read this letter or that. With sweat pouring down his spine, he'd nodded at each one. The doctor had prescribed him glasses anyway, but he'd gotten in. They couldn't afford to turn down recruits for lack of perfect eyesight.

“You're no fun today,” Isabela said, pouting. “I heard you spent the night down at the Hanged Man. Lucky!”

Fenris shrugged, not moving from his desk.

Isabela groaned and got up to leave. “I don't know why I try sometimes,” she said. “You act like you're scared of me. I'm not scared of you, though. I think you want me to be afraid.” She came to stand alongside him. “You don't want to have ties here that might lead you to  _ care _ . What was it? What made you afraid of people being close to you? It won't stop me. I'll be back.” And she left, slamming his door behind her.

 

Bethany slipped in without her brother noticing. He was intent on watching Karl and Anders in the simulator. They were a perfect match for each other, but they were simply unskilled. Their movements were slow and unpracticed.

“Anders looks exhausted,” Bethany noted.

“They both are,” Hawke said. “I'm about to pull them out.”

“How was Fenris?”

“Boy, do I have a story for you,” Hawke said, shaking his head.

“What happened?”

“Later.” Hawke leaned forward and pushed the intercom.

“Go ahead and shut off the simulator,” he said to the team on the other side of the darkened window. “You two need rest.”

First Karl, then Anders dropped out of the sim cockpit and helped each other out of the bright jackets that were supposed to help them keep focused in case one started to rabbit. It never happened to Karl and Anders, but some of the recruits did it almost regularly. Improvement was slow.

Once they had gone one time, letting a memory pull them into their past and replay a history that felt so real, it was easy to do it again. Hawke knew well. He had gone after Carver many times, but knew enough now to recognize the way the puddles on the street reflected night even though it was day, that every street sign read “Ferelden St.” It still hurt to let Carver go, to turn his back on his little brother and walk back into the cockpit. It felt like long minutes, but it only lasted seconds. It was easiest when Bethany was there. She was Carver’s twin, and she could see Hawke running after their brother, but somehow never did it herself. She'd pull him back with a hug and they would go back to fighting, never speaking of it. Hawke thought she didn't carry the guilt like he did, thinking he could have done something to stop Carver from leaving.

But that was the past, and despite their mutually troubled histories, Karl and Anders hardly wavered. Hawke gave them mild congratulations on a good practice and let Bethany take over.

She gave them both instructions to eat early and go straight to bed afterwards, cutting off Anders’ protests that he had physician duties to see to tonight. Karl finally pulled him away, agreeing with Bethany.

“I'm eating with Fenris tonight,” Hawke said. “We have to have a discussion. I'll see you after and we can talk then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the slow going. I imagine so many details I don't want to leave out. And I got an awesome idea for bringing in Carver, so now I'm going to work on bringing him back. The writing is going slower now, so updates are slower, because work is getting busy and I'm randomly waking up at 4 am and not being able to get back to sleep, which makes for very long days and a very tired writer. Thanks for reading and sticking around <3

**Author's Note:**

> Still my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic. I haven't drafted the whole thing, but I have some ideas of how it's going to go, so let's give it a try?
> 
> Comments & feedback are always welcome, even if it's just one word to let me know what you thought of it. Thanks!
> 
> oh, and I'm on tumblr, I guess: [protect-him](http://protect-him.tumblr.com). I make fanart and am dabbling in writing, clearly.


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